


Soup and Zombie Movies Are The Best Remedy

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Sick Stiles, strangely paternal Peter, you can see it as slash or not. It can go either way.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-20
Updated: 2012-11-20
Packaged: 2017-11-19 02:53:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/568254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is so sick that he starts to hallucinate about a particular undead wolf. Until he learns it isn't really a hallucination.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soup and Zombie Movies Are The Best Remedy

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on my Tumblr for a prompt.

Stiles  wakes up coughing up a lung at who-fucking-knows O’clock and generally feels like warmed up shit left on someone’s porch. He has survived countless werewolf attacks, a few Kanima encounters, and even more hunter situations, only so that he could die in his bed with a freakin’ flu.

It’s pathetic, really.

His nose is so stuffed up he had to resort to breathing grossly through his mouth; every breath he took stung as if a cat used the inside of his throat as a scratching post. He opens bleary eyes and tries to move with the intent of getting water. He barely moved his legs an inch and he found himself whimpering; his head’s pounding and he feels too sore to do anything. Staying in bed’s just fine. His throat isn’t worth the pain of moving just yet, so he opted to just lie down and stew in his misery as opposed to getting up.

Stiles has the urge to call out for his father before remembering that, nope, he’s not there. He was out of state for a conference that Stiles forgot was for. He remembered how relieved his father looked when he got the memo, and it kinda hurt that his dad would be so excited to be away from him. Not that he blamed him; but it still hurt. A sigh turned into another coughing fit, and he’s almost glad for the distraction, because he’s sure he would have started thinking about his mom next. He could really use some of her homemade soup right about now.

There’s suddenly a slight shuffling noise and Stiles groggily lifts his head to look for the source. And, great, his fever must be pretty bad because he’s sure he’s hallucinating.

He has to be hallucinating, because Peter Hale is definitely not in his room right now, frowning down at him with his forehead creased in… was that concern? Yeah, definitely a hallucination.

“G’way,” Stiles croaks at it, because his track record with hallucinations weren’t very good and he’d like to keep his sanity, please and thank you. 

Hallucination Peter blinks down at him, turns, and walks out of his room. Which is great, Stiles thinks, until Hallucination Peter just walks right back in a few minutes later. With a cup of water.

Well if the hallucination is going to be nice to him, then Stiles thinks it can stay after all. Only, he’s confused as to why his mind conjured up Peter of all people.

He struggles to sit up right, so hallucination Peter sits beside him and helps him up. The water is brought up to his lips and Stiles drinks greedily, the coolness feels like pure bliss sliding down his throat - so good, Stiles thinks he might have died and went to heaven already. When the water is gone, the cup is cast aside and the hallucination places it’s hands on either side of Stiles’ sweat slick neck. 

Stiles would normally say something about that, but the sensation stopped him. It felt… _good._ Like his pain was being sucked out of his body. His eyes were getting heavy, but before he closed them he let his eyes drop down to the hallucination’s blessed hands. He noticed black lines where veins were supposed to be and it struck him odd, but, hallucinations were supposed to be odd. He hadn’t anymore will power to keep his eyes open then, so he fell into slumber once more. 

When Stiles wakes up again it’s because the sun decided to stab his eyelids with bright light. He groans at it, turns, and realizes he won’t be able to go back to sleep. He’s lying in a pool of his own sweat, his mouth feels grimy and tastes worse, and he needs to take a mean piss.

Sliding out of his bed as carefully as possible, he dragged himself to the bathroom to handle his business. He brushed his teeth, showered and noticed that…he still feels like shit, but not quite as shitty as before.

He’ll take what he can get, he figures. He walks out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist and nearly jumps out of his skin when he hears a voice,

“Oh good, you’re awake and all cleaned up. I was afraid I had to dump water on you if you didn’t get up soon.”

“Peter,” Stiles wheezes, his voice rough with sickness, “Oh, I wasn’t hallucinating, then?”

Stiles is clutching his chest as if to will his erratic heartbeat down as Peter raises a sassy brow at him.

“Hallucinating?” he questions, “Really, Stiles? I didn’t know you had dreams about me that often.”

Stiles flushed, “Shut up. You being here didn’t make sense otherwise!”

“You’re sick,” Peter rolls his eyes, “I made soup. Come downstairs.”

“What?” Stiles croaks.

Peter is looking at him with an expression he usually saves for Scott and his obsession for Allison.

“You haven’t eaten anything for a while. Last I checked, humans need food to survive.”

“I’m-”  _not_   _hungry_  Stiles means to say, or at least a  _I don’t want your food because its probably poisoned,_  but his stomach chooses that exact moment to voice that, he was indeed starved and needed sustenance,  _pronto_. Stiles’ mouth snaps shut and he ducks his head in embarrassment. Peter just rolls his eyes again and moves forward to throw clothes at Stiles before stalking out of the room.

Quickly, Stiles puts on the clothing and follows Peter to the dining room, because no way is he going leave the psychotic werewolf in his house unattended. He is suddenly met with the sight of a glorious bowl of soup at the table; he wished he had his sense of smell right about now, because it looked like it could smell like heaven. (Or maybe he was just that hungry.)

“Quit staring and eat, Stiles,” Peter says, pushing him into the chair in front of the soup from behind.

He glares up at Peter from where he was sitting, but starts to eat nonetheless. The werewolf was lucky Stiles was hungry, or there would have been words. Peter slid in to another chair adjacent to Stiles’ to watch him eat, which was…well, creepy. Stiles looked back at him with narrowed eyes, and then startled when he noticed something.

“Are you wearing my dad’s clothes?” he cries indignantly with his mouth full of noodles.

Peter cringed at Stiles’ lack of table manners.

“Please close your mouth Stiles. It’s not polite to talk with your mouth full. And yes,” Peter says, “I’m wearing your father’s clothing. You sweated all over my clothes last night. I wanted to freshen up.”

Stiles chokes then, and Peter has to pat his back to get him to stop.

“You slept in my bed with me?” his voice strains.

“Yes,” and the expression on Peter’s face looked as if he thought there was nothing possibly wrong with that.

“You don’t see the problem there?” Stiles rasps.

Peter’s eyebrows pulled together at the question.

“You needed to sweat your fever out and my body is hotter than any blanket or quilt you own.”

Stiles presses his mouth in a line and tries to ignore any homoerotic undertones the sentence may or may not hold. ( _Can’t catch me, gay thoughts!_ )

“Also, company usually helps sickness pass better. Before, when one or more of the pups got sick we’d all come together and sleep,” Peter continued softly, “It did the quite the trick.”

Stiles just looked at the other man for a moment, not saying anything. Because what  _could_  he say to that? He sometimes forgot just how much Peter had lost, and that he wasn’t always a psychotic murderer; he’d had a family and maybe even some kids.  _Pups,_ Peter called them - God, how many children were in that fire? He focuses on the other part of what Peter said, mostly for his sanity;he didn’t even know werewolves could get sick.

“Eat, Stiles,” Peter smiles - and it made Stiles wonder just how good Peter is at acting. 

He starts to eat again and doesn’t stop until he’s done with the bowl. He’s surprised he was able to eat the whole thing, really. He was hungry, yes, but all the other times he’d tried to eat, the food just came right back up. 

“Do you want more?” Peter asked.

“No,” Stiles bit his lip -he managed to stomach one bowl but he doesn’t want to push it with two, “It was great though. Reminds me of mom’s.”

Stiles froze, because he hadn’t meant to say that at all.  It was the truth, he realized, after the words came out of his mouth. Thankfully, Peter doesn’t say anything. He just takes Stiles’ bowl and goes to the kitchen to wash it. Stiles just stays seated, silent, until Peter comes back to place a hand on his shoulder.

“Time for a bath, Stiles.”

_What._

_  
_“What?” Stiles looks up at Peter incredulously, “I mean, I took a shower already.”

Peter just tuts as he tugs at Stiles’ sleeve so that he can get up.

“I said bath, not shower,” he says and he makes Stiles follows him back upstairs to the bathroom.

Stiles watches with a mixture of awe and confusion in his face as Peter allows the tub to fill up half way. He stops the water and places a plug on the drain, so that the water could stay. Peter then takes out a green bottle Stiles never saw before, and pours it into the tub. Even through Stiles’ stuffed nose he can smell some sort of mixture of menthol and mint.

“What is that?” Stiles asks, curiosity getting the better of him.

“Alcolado. And some other stuff. It’s great for your skin, and it’ll help  you breathe better,” he almost hums in response, “Now off with your clothes and hop in. I’ll knock on the door in a half hour so you can get out.”

With that, Peter leaves and closes the door behind him, leaving Stiles to stare at the tub dumbly. He would have stared longer if Peter hadn’t knocked sharply and threatened,

“I will come in there and rip your clothes off myself if you do not move, Stiles.”

It’s all the motivation Stiles needs, really. He’s out of his clothes and in the tub, and  _boy_ does that feel good. His skin feels cooler, and he can already feel his nostrils opening up - the smell of the alcolado strong, yet soothing. Peter has to threaten Stiles to come in and drag him out when the thirty minutes are up.

When Stiles walks back in the room he sees that Peter had changed his sheets and cleared off all the used tissues he had lying about the room. He frowns a little.

“Stiles, do you want-” Peter starts, but the teen cuts him off,

“Why are you doing this?”

Peter cocks his head to the side (it takes all Stiles has not to make any dog jokes), “You’re sick.”

Stiles shakes his head, “but why do you-“

“Care?” Peter shrugs, “Because I do.”

Well, that’s very specific. Stiles can see where Derek gets it from. 

There’s a change in the air as Peter looks at him with a very somber expression on his face. What more, it is very…intense. Almost like soul-gazing, if that was possible. It made Stiles squirm a little where he stood.

“You remind me of someone,” Peter states, quietly. His mouth is set in a line, and Stiles could almost see anguish in his eyes. Whatever this is, it isn’t healthy, Stiles thinks.

“I’m not that person,” he says, because he can’t let Peter bring a ghost to life in someone else, especially himself.

“I know,” Peter gives Stiles a wry smile, “but sometimes I wonder if he would have turned out like you.”

Stiles swallows the lump forming in his throat. Peter looks to be doing the same, his body is stiff, his fists are clenched. A silence falls between them before Stiles shakes himself out of it. He grabs Peter’s arm and gives a gentle squeeze.

“C’mon. Let’s go watch a DVD or something. Sick days are movie marathon days,” Stiles says.

Peter smirks, tension leaving his body, and there’s an emotion in his eyes that Stiles can’t quite pick out.

“And what movies do you have in mind?”

“Oh, Resident Evil. Some Shawn of the Dead. You know, zombie flicks,” Stiles waggles his eyebrows.

“Har har,” Peter rolls his eyes.

“Whatever, you’ll love it,” Stiles picks out the DVDs and proceeded to drag Peter down to the living room.

He ended up sitting through six zombie movies of stupid people and gore, with a snoring, drooling teenager’s head on his lap, but Stiles was right. He did love it.

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes I like some fluffy Peter/Stiles. Sue me.
> 
> Also, Alcolado is a real thing people. It works wonders!


End file.
